After The War
by paraduxks
Summary: Once upon a very long time ago, a new land was discovered. Hundreds of soldiers died to fight for it, their names lost to time. Finally, the war was won, but at a cost. Money was one, yes. Lives were lost as well, but that was not of the utmost importance to two soldiers. For Arthur, winning had only broken his heart.
1. 1774

1774, a rainy Sunday.

Alfred looked down at Arthur. He had always thought that the Brit had beautiful eyes, ones that matched the terrain Alfred had grown up in. Arthur looked like he was about to cry, though he kept his face expressionless. His eyes, however, were a different matter. Alfred hated seeing such hopeless eyes. Alfred removed his gun from his shoulder and unscrewed the bayonet from the barrel.

"No…" Arthur whispered, moving forward as the rifle and bayonet hit the grass. Alfred would have prefered that they had been indoors, but it now meant that Arthur would have to carry his things back to his fort himself. Alfred removed his powder horn from his hip and let the dust spray across the earth between them, rendered useless by the rain.

Alfred wondered if he should be doing this, but pushed it aside. This was his home, and no one could tell him what to do with it. No one could force his hand, not anymore. He was done. Alfred didn't know much of warfare, for Arthur had kept him from it as long as he could. Even then, he had been stuck far away from home in Virginia. Why couldn't Arthur see that he only wanted to help his people, his country?

Arthur stepped forward again, placing one hand over Alfred's, as they began to unbutton his red jacket from the top.

"Alfred…Not like this…Please." Arthur begged softly. For a moment, looking down at Arthur's face, upon which he now let show his fear and and anger and everything in between, and most of all, genuine concern for Alfred.

"Y-You are going to die if your people declare this war!" Arthur said, now shaking slightly. Alfred sighed slowly.

"I have to do this. I'm not in charge of anything but my heart, and right now, it's telling me that I need to follow the path I've made for myself." Alfred hesitated momentarily, then threw his arms around Arthur, collarbone bumping into his medallion.

"And don't you think for one second that I'm not coming back for you."


	2. 1783

1783, a cloudless and humid August day. Massechusets.

Alfred dismounted the horse, and patted it's dark neck softly. He thanked it for carrying him, and walked away. If the horse were to leave now, there was nothing he could do. Or rather, he would not care.

He gazed up at the sky, the cloudless, blue sky as he walked through the city. With each step, his heart sunk further. As he neared the crowd of people who were gathered around the center of the square, their jeerings of _filthy loyalist_ reached his ears. One of those things was wrong. The other was slightly less so. With his heart in his throat, Alfred scanned the clearing. The cries grew louder.

There was nothing in front of him but the crowd, a seeithing, living being, with one mind. If one woman were to move slightly to the right, they all did. If one man craned his neck for a better view, they all copied him in unison. Alfred, however, was not one of them.

Finally, his eyes caught sight of a barrel that sat next to the corner of a stone building. Within the minute, he had run to stand upon it. With the addition of three feet below his own, Alfred coud see over the heads of all those who crowded around the hangman's noose.

Alfred couldn't move. Alfred was too afraid, rooted to his spot. Heroism had failed him when the box was kicked from under the man's feet, and he fell. The man had always been short, and he had been standing on his toes to begin with. Now, his legs churned the air, and he swung madly from side to side as he tried to free himself.

Alfred couldn't look away. The only thing that would hurt more than watching the man die would be to hear his strangled cries for help, drowning in the mix of jeers against him.

The man's green eyes met with Alfred's, glaring accusingly.

Sorry, Alfred mouthed. He had never meant anything more. The recipiant would never know what he had said, for Arthur Kirkland was dead.


	3. 1755

1755, after the Battle of the Monongahela. A nondescript, nonexistant mid-Pennsylvania town.

Arthur slapped his hand against that of a close friend of his, laughing slightly as they walked down the dirt road. Seamus waved goodbye as he turned off the path, heading to the fort. He and Seamus did not share destinations, as he was heading to the only pub in town and Seamus was going home for the night, after a particularly taxing battle. Still, one must keep in high spirits.

"Hiya, mister!" Arthur jumped in surprise, and looked around for the speaker. It was a small boy.

"Hello to you too." Arthur said, and continued on.

"What are you doing here?" The boy asked, "What's your name? I'm Alfred Jones!" Arthur turned back around, and looked at the boy.

"I'm going home." He said, shifting his red coat around on his shoulders. It was no longer just dye that made it red.

"Where do you live?" The boy asked. Arthur stopped again, agitated. He looked down at the child once more. "London. That's in England. Do you have any more-"

"Wow! I've never been to England. I'm from the west, ya'know? My pa has a farm! Do they have farms in London? Farms are nice." Alfred said, and came forward to stand in front of Arthur. Arthur gave an exasperated sigh,

"Yes. There are farms in London." He said, "May I please go home now?" Arthur asked. Alfred nodded, "But come back here some day! You're a nice man, mister!" Arthur sighed once more in annoyance of the strange and unusual child.

"Don't call people mister or missus, it's impolite. My name is Arthur, call me that instead." He said, and moved along. Alfred smiled a big, gap-toothed smile.

"Yay!" The boy celebrated, waving his hands around manically, "Davie! Davie, I made a friend!" He shouted, running away to whoever Davie happened to be. Arthur rolled his eyes, slightly humoured by the boy. He continued towards the pub.


	4. 1773, later on

1773, later on. A sunny day in New York City.

Arthur was an idiot. He shouldn't have come, he should have just stayed home with the curtains drawn and a bottle of alcohol nestled within the crook of his arm, clothing gathering sweat and stench, but today, he had screwed up his courage. It would have been what Seamus wanted, it would have been what Alfred wanted, and it was what he wanted, hell, he wanted this with every fibre of his being. But God, was he afraid.  
Fear was like a fine ale, stinging your throat and burning in your stomach. And Arthur was as well as balckout drunk.

He wanted to run away so goddamn bad, there wasn't enough joy. He was too afraid to do anything right...Then again, that was what Alfred had done. Alfred had been terrified during the war, but smiled through it. If Arthur could go back to the time when they could just hold each other all night long without a care in the world for anything but each other, he would do it in a heartbeat. If he could go back to the time when 'I'm not cold at all, stupid' would mean that he would be with Alfred until he was sweating and maybe longer, if it was snowing, he would already be back in the fort, curled against Alfred as they hid from the rest of the soldiers behind a pile of firewood, and when Alfred though that he had fallen asleep to the heartbeat drum, he would kiss the top of Arthur's head and ears and forehead and eyebrows until he grew bored of the subject and laid his head against some wood, pulling Arthur closer before he groaned softly and fell into slumber, he would already be there.

And he knocked on the door with that memory in mind. Everything was silent for a brief moment, and then the door opened, although not by Alfred, but by a heavily pregnant woman.

"Hello, dear, what can I do for you?" She asked, one hand portectively around her stomach, the other resting lazily atop it. Arthur only gazed at her bulging dress before the words

"I'm stupid. I shouldn't have come." left his lips.

"Who's at the door, Esther?" Came the voice of a man, from the inside of the house.

Arthur looked over the woman's shoulder, and noticed the sillhouette of a man.

"Oh, God..." He whispered, before turning tail and fleeing before he saw Alfred's face again.

Alfred arrived at the door, and stood next to his wife.

"Who was that?" He asked. She shook her head.

"I'm not sure. I've never seen him before. He had flaxen hair and green eyes, and quite large eyebrows. Anyone you know?" She asked, turning back into the hosue. Alfred's throat tightened.

"Esther. I'm going out."


	5. 1761

**(I failed. I'm sorry. I spent so long looking for the date that this battle happened because I couldn't remember it, and even after looking through the documentary that inspired this, I couldn't find it. So I made up the year.)**

1761\. A rainy day. A hopeless battle, the English and their comrades on the losing side.

Alfred took a deep and nervous breath. He spent several nimutes in this fashion, calming himself. The voices were loud and the rain was like a bullet to the back of his neck. He couldn't tell if what he was hearing was gunfire or thunder, and to be honest, he no longer cared.

When he looked down, he didn't know if what he saw were his boots or the ground that had become mud. That was another thing that evaded his care.

He glanced up at Arthur, at hair that was now brown and plastered across his forehead. It was thin, some of what Alfred saw being hair and the rest being pinkish skin. Arthur ducked suddenly, chest hitting the ground next to Alfred.

He yanked slightly on Alfred's sleeve, and within the second, they were laying together on their stomachs in a trench half filled with water. People screamed, shouted, in both English and languages that niether man knew.

Alfred squinted, his vision already blurred, trying to make out the shape of Arthur in the rain. He looked down at the unreflective surface of the water, at the gunpowder that danced along the rampant surface, flung from the puddle and onto their red and white uniforms. They would be stained forever now.

"Arthur?" He asked loudly. Arthur's blurred head was beginning to come into focus. He looked up to face Alfred. He smiled softly to himself.

"I remember when we first met. It was a day like today." He said softly. He stared at Alfred, at blue eyes that had turned gray. At golden hair that was now a dark chocolate brown.

"So do I. I was there." Alfred said. He then mentally slapped himself for saying something so dumb. He knew what needed to be said, he was just a coward.

"You were so...small. Your friend, remember him? You went to see him after..." Arthur paused, shifting his hips along the ground, closer to Alfred. His movement stirred up some mud, making the surface of the water even less clear and the gunpowder slightly less distinguishable.

"Why are you talking like this?" Alfred asked. Arthur smiled at the puddle

"Tell me, what are the odds that we will live through this day? I don't like them."

"Hey. Calm down. I promise you, I'll make sure you don't die today." Alfred said. He drew Arthur to his chest. Mud and rain slopped onto and into their boots.


	6. 1769

1769, Jamestown, Virginia. Early morning.

Arthur turned to look at Alfred, a perfect portait of his face. His tanned skin, his bright blue eyes. The sea of blond hair that was hardly so, hovering on the edge of being brown, thanks to the wonders the sun did for him. There was his forehead, gently sloping out, like the grassy shores of the greatly sized lake up north. Then there was the less soft slope from the peak of his forehead to the bridge of his nose. Then there was the small hill and cliff, full of hairy caves that was his nose. Then there was his philtrum, and his full, although not large, lips. Then there was his chin, and the overhang it formed over his neck, with it's large, bulging Adam's apple. God, his skin just looked so soft, Arthur could just-

"It's nice out today, isn't it?" Alfred said softly, of the humidity that was, for once, absent.

"Y-Yes," Arthur whispered, "It is." He would complain of the pain that rippled throughout the muscles in his legs and lower back. He really was getting old, even if he did have some time left...

"What's the real reason you brought me out here?" He asked, wondering if Alfred was suffering from the same memories he was.

Alfred sighed, and sat up. One of his hands found Arthur's, clutching in a way that was tight only to the clutchee.

"I want you to promise me that you won't run away. That you won't show how you feel, because, God, this is the one time I need you to pretend that everything's fine." Alfred said. The pit in Arthur's stomach grew deeper, accompanied by hot pricklings across his skin. In other words, something was about to change, and not for the better.

"I hate you." Arthur whispered, and felt his age once again as he curled up into a sitting position, his stomach ached longer than it had since before the war...Since living in London, and hating himself for fancing the blacksmith's son.

"Fantastic." Alfred whispered, "Now...Promise me again."

"I promise." Alfred looked to his lap, and exhaled heavily.

"I'm getting married."


	7. 1773

1773, an Inn in New York. People are having sex in it. You can hear through the thin walls.

Alfred touched him, softly. Arthur leaned closer, feeling Alfred's hand pressing against him softly, although it held strength enough to snap his ribs. Arthur stood on his toes, the tight material of his pants and coat restricting his movements ever so slightly. His legs were shaking, although not only from standing on his toes. Alfred was gentle as he ground himself against Arthur, always showing his stupid concern.

"I-I'm older than you. I'm not a virgin." Arthur said softly, reaching up to grab Alfred. His hair was soft, and his scalp was slightly sweaty. He pulled the man down to kiss him. Alfred pulled his head up, away,

"I don't know, Artie...I mean, you're not afraid?"

"Of course I'm afraid! I'm bloody terrified!" Arthur struggled to say. He wanted, so, so much, but what's to say that that fear wasn't something he could overcome? He didn't want to be afraid anymore, he wanted to be prone and able to endure anything Alfred could throw at him.

"Arthur...M-Maybe this isn't the best idea." He said, pushing away Arthur's hand from the top of his shirt. Arthur frowned, his eyebrows coming together on his face.

"Why?" He asked. Alfred looked down at green, lust-ridden eyes, and couldn't see anything but the kind man he had known.

"Because...Because none of this is real. Wouldn't you rather do it with the real me?"

Arthur's dream broke around him, and he shot up from the straw mattress of the shitty inn bed. His head whipped around, looking for Alfred, but, as it had been for the last four years, there was no Alfred. There might never be again, because he had to follow the rules...The one time he didn't bend logic to his will. Arthur just wanted to see him again, but there was no way he could look at him and the ring on his finger ever again.


	8. 1760

1760\. Youghiogheny River.

Alfred's feet were long since numb, shaking about in his boots as he struggled through the cold water. He leaned out, extending his arms as far as they could go. He let the net in his right hand fall down and dip into the place where the current was the swiftest.

"All we have to do now is wait." He said.

"What happens when, like the idiot you are, you drop the net? Or slip and fall?" Arthur's voice asked from the bank. It was muffled slightly by the water crashing against itself and the banks of the river. Alfred grinned,

"That's what makes it interesting." He lifted the net from the water, revealing a minnow.

"Hey, see I did-" The minnow didn't care about Alfred's victory in catching it, however, and simply wriggled out of the net.

"I don't see a fish." Arthur said hautily, "I'm going back to...where I came from." Alfred turned at the waist, looking up at Arthur. He was still sitting, cross-legged, in the grass that came up to his shoulders. Alfred squinted to see the expression on his face, seeing that he was slightly annoyed, pale face red from the sun.

"Shouldn't you be standing up, then?" Alfred asked. Arthur huffed softly, and pushed himself up from his position. "Happy?"

"Well, you're not leaving." Alfred pointed out. Arthur huffed once more, this time angrily.

"Fine!" He shouted, and began to trudge away from the river. Alfred's eyes widened in shock. Swiftly, nonetheless carefully, he splashed out of the river, abandoning his net on the bank and not caring to pick up his shirt. He ran after Arthur, easily catching up, and asked the first thing that came into his head.

"Where are you going?" He asked. He grabbed Arthur's arm, "We were having fun!" Arthur rolled his eyes.

"No, you were having fun. I assume. I was sitting there wasting time."

"What else do you have to do? You act really tense whenever we're together, and-" Arthur yanked his arm away. He turned around to face Alfred, and suddenly realized that it wouldn't be much longer until he was shorter than the young man.

"You're too young to understand." Arthur said, "Goodbye, until the next time you decide to bother me."


	9. 1777

1777\. Battle of Princeton.

Arthur struggled not to pout, biting his lip. Alfred was an idiot, it had been confirmed. He had grown up on the battlefield, he should know better than to side with enemies. Arthur blinked and tore his eyes away from where Alfred was panicking sligtly, hopping from foot to foot.

The Frenchman kneeling next to him shouted something that Arthur couldn't hear- Only making him more angry- as he continued to tie a tournequet around the leg of another Frenchman. Alfred paused for a moment, and then turned back to the raging battle. Arthur huffed angrily and climbed higher into the tree. he settled himself in a fork in two branches, and pulled his rifle from his hip.

He loaded the gun, and trained his eyes on a young man in a blue coat, one who was about to plunge his cutlass into the chest of a man in a red coat. Arthur thought he recognized the man in the red jacket. He fired his rifle, sending a bulled into the side of the American man. The other man rose and looked around, bewildered, but yanked the cutlass from the hand of the American soldier and drove it through his chest before throwing it on the ground and finding his gun once more.

Arthur found himself blinking in the sunlight, and he laid eyes upon another American. He was younger than the last, and Arthur had a strange aversion to shooting him. It took him all of five minutes to convinvce himself to pull the trigger. He missed by a few feet, and cursed at himself under his breath. He loaded his gun once more and took aim.

Alfred ran into his field of vision, to the soldier. He put his hand on the shoulder of the man, just as Arthur pulled the trigger once more. Alfred leapt back from the soldier, and fell square on his bottom. A spot on his white pants had errupted in a bright red, about halfway up his thigh.

No.


	10. 1759

1759\. Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania.

The pair of them sat below a tree that had been there for many more years than either man would live to have. The younger of the pair sighed, and glanced at his counterpart. The older of the pair picked at his fingers, dissatisfied by the quality of his skin in that location.

Alfred sighed softly, wishing he could stop staring at Arthur. No, he wished that he could stip the thoughts that came with staring at Arthur.

Arthur looked away from the young man in his nubile body. It was making him think dangerous thoughts, the most dangerous he had had in America. And it was during a goddamn war that this was happening! It wasn't fair that he was afraid more of a child than of hoards of enemy soldiers, when he was outnumbered and outgunned! Arthur needed not to be afraid of Alfred, he needed to be afraid of the French! It simply didn't make sense, and wasn't fair.

"Mister Arthur, why do people fight wars?" Alfred asked. Arthur was struck by something strange. It was like fear, only it wasn't. It was like pride, only it wasn't. It was like sadness and joy and anger all at once. He hated it.

"Do you ever argue with Matthew? Or John and Elizabeth? Emily? I'm sure you argue with Billius. You two are quite the opposite." Alfred digested this for a few seconds before nodding.

"The older ones don't like me because I'm the youngest. I'm supposedly very hungry, but I can't help it, Arthur! I'm out here all day and sometimes longer than that, and I don't get fed much because the other soldiers think I'm too young to be here! They're just like my siblings, and hate me! You're the only nice one of these soldiers, Arthur!" Alfred said, all in one breath. Arthur was taken aback. He wanted to hit himself for allowing his heart to go aflutter, but all the same enjoyed the sensation.

"You've not experienced much. I've killed in the past, I believe you have too. And I'm most certainly not kind."

"But you are, Arthur! You took me in when I was alone and kept me alive!" Alfred said happily. He leaned his head on Arthur's shoulder, blissfully unaware of the affect he had. Arthur was frozen, facing the sky. Alfred's hand was shyly clutching the hand of his senior.


End file.
